The Beheadings
by TobyWong
Summary: Crossover with HIghlander. Sherlock HOlmes faces a case with no logical way out. Written for the HLBB Crossover Contest. Didn't win though I


**THE BEHEADINGS**

It is in my deathbed, that I, John Watson, narrate once more a tale of my old friend Sherlock Holmes. But it is neither one of an astonishing, brilliant success, nor further evidence of Holmes' extraodinary mind. It was a strange event, one of which I have lost many details, one which has arisen in a dream, the one I am writing about now..

It was a cold night, and sleep had been interrupted by a knock on the door. My annoyance over that matter subsided when I found Sherlock Holmes, having a light in his eyes that meant that there was a case, a peculiar case.

A carriage took us near the Big Ben, where a crowd had gathered. Holmes moved forward, his stride quickening with every step he took. A constable dispersed the people enough so that my friend and I could walk inside a dark alley, where Inspector Lestrade puffed a pife uneasily as he stared at a corpse.

My stomach turned upside down upon the sight of the decedent. A beheaded man. For despite being a doctor, it is very different to see a dead person over a stretcher at a morgue than to see it at the crime scene. I turned away and caught a glimpse of Holmes kneeling with wicked joy beside the body.

"Interesting. Very interesting." He mused after a few minutes of examining the body. He rose and told Lestrade that he would do his best. "Watson, let's go for a walk."

I felt relieved of leaving such a ghastly scene. Holmes seemed anxious. As soon as there was no one else on the same street, he exposed, much to my stomach's reticence, amid the cold and fog of London, his theory.

"The cut was even, done with a single slice. That entails that whoever did it was a strong person. A man, obviously, or a sized woman. It also shows that he used a large sharp weapon to commit such a murder." He stopped. "But it might not have been a murder."

"Excuse me?"

"There was something inside the man's clothes, something that our dear Lestrade might have disregarded... a sword."

I was wondering how a civilian could carry a sword in his coat when Holmes changed directions and headed towards a bar.

"Holmes?" I queried, not understanding the reasoning of my friend.

"Murdering is never easy, Watson. Our suspect will surely need a drink to silence his conscience."

We walked in. The bar was small and with little light. To our left, at a table, four men were gathered over a whist match. To our right, the bartender served a drink to a bulky gentleman, who seemed high on alcohol. It was him who struck me as our man, and I glanced at Holmes to point it, but I noticed his attention was elsewhere.

At the table, a man had won a match and gathered the resulting earnings from the bets run. He was tall and well built. He guffawed as he hid his money in a pocket and headed towards the door. Holmes intercepted him with a grin and introduced himself, wanting to know the name of such a fine whist player.

"Hans Khan."

Khan was almost a giant, dressed in trims not fit for a man who obviously knew how to make money with cards. A striking detail of his garments was the neck of his shirt, which was peculiarty long, reaching almost his chin, and meticulously closed, as if he intended to hide something. He held a lengthy and broad cane, which seemed unnecessary.

"Mr. Khan, I don't know—"

Holmes stopped midsentence when one of Khan's opponents, evidenly annoyed by his want of luck, rushed at the winner angrily aiming a bottle at his head. Khan opposed his arm, on which the bottle hit and shattered. He yelled as he pushed the man away first, to then punch him hard in the face. The aggressor fell flat on the floor as Khan removed some shards of glass stuck in his palm.

"What you were saying, Mr. Holmes?"

The voice was coarse and raspy. Holmes stared blankly at him for a second before focusing again and speaking clearly.

"I don't know who was your teacher, but he must have been a magnificent player. Allow me to congratule you."

Khan did not seem to care. He smirked and went past us. I stared reticently at him as he left, disgusted with such a want of manners. Holmes, I noticed, also stared but for different reasons. There was an eagerness in his look that made me knew that he was intrigued about that man...

The following afternoon, Holmes and I were at Baker Street. I was fiddling with a riddle that had come in the newspaper, while my friend was reading a book on Anatomy.

"So, Watson," he suddenly called, "how did that riddle go?"

"I can't understand it."

"Ah," he mused, "much the same for me. It is the first time I see such a thing." I knew he was not referring to a dead body, so I asked what he meant. "A person healing so fast."

"Who?" My question needed not an answer. I remembered well what had happened last night. "Khan."

"Exactly. He was cut... But he never bled."

"He could be low in blood."

"But would he be so strong then?"

Holmes was right. It was really peculiar. For there are certain special people on this planet, such as the Elephant Man. But Khan could not be one of them. Not at all. Holmes would not have been so suspicious then.

The door interrupted our conversation. Lestrade walked in miserably. Holmes offered some scotch as the inspector rested on a chair. He looked distressed.

"For my name's sake, I am completely puzzled, Mr. Holmes."

"Calm down, Lestrade." Holmes warmed him. "Do you have any new fact for us?"

"The corpse had a sword. Whoever he was, and whoever killed him, they fought before the death, and the winner hid the sword back in the body."

"I see. Any suspect so far?"

"We've detained a doctor. A fellow by the name of Adams. He was seen in the area and he had a very interesting sword cane with him."

Holmes suddenly grinned. He patted Lestrade and showed him to the door, congratuling him, for he believed that Adams was to blame. Lestrade looked relieved and he left. As soon as Holmes closed the door again, I knew that he had not meant that.

"The doctor did not do it, did he?" I asked retorically, knowing the answer already. I also wondered who this Adams was, for I had never met him, and I had a fair acquaintance of almost all the doctors in London.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Holmes grabbed his coat. "Come, Watson, we're going to the library."

--

At the library, Holmes headed to find old newspapers. He had a set of notes, all taken after checking on his incredibly complete file on every relevant person and matter that had occurred in England. For two hours, he inspected six years' news, selecting some papers.

He brought his selections to a large table, where he began to read eagerly. I scanned over some, and soon I made the connection. All of them mentioned a case of beheading, very similar to these. One in Dover, another in Brighton. A sidenote about the coincidence of the death by beheading of a man with the end of the murders of the Ripper... In short, Holmes was looking for a pattern.

"Well..." he uttered finally, rising from his chair. "I guess we won't find anything here. Let's go back to Baker Street."

--

Our return greeted us with a visitor. A beautiful lady of no more than thirty springs awaited Holmes impatiently. Holmes shook her hand gently when she introduced herself as Franzizka Romanova. She was from Prusia, and was after a criminal, who had murdered her husband. She hoped Holmes might help her find him. My friend's name had crossed borders, reaching the cold and distant homeland of such a fair beauty.

Her English was very good, a trait that Holmes surely did not overlook. He said he would do his best and asked for details. I saw Holmes' face brightening, a detail that a stranger would not have noticed, when she described a person very similar to our Hans Khan. Holmes farewelled her efusively and when she departed, he grabbed his coat again.

"I'm leaving again, Watson. Please stay with your riddle. Your presence is always welcome, but you must be tired."

He returned two hours later, with a small envelope in hands. He smirked as he approached and sat beside me. He frisked his hands and suddenly spoke cheerfully.

"Watson, I have found something to help the lady." He stood up and began to flutter around the room. "Miss Romanova surely has problems with English, despite her remarkable pronunciation. You see, I telegraphed an acquaintance in Moscow, asking for details. The reply was almost instantaneous, saying he remembered the case, but he would have to look. He asked me to stay there." He paused and sighed. "Miss Romanova must be his daughter, for Mr. Viktor Romanov died twenty years ago. "

--

It was not until the following night that Holmes and I met again. And it was under very strange circumstances. We were due to meet at the same tabern where we had met Hans Khan. A flu case had rendered me near it, so I had only to walk a few blocks to arrive at the place.

It was chilly and the wind made my bones shiver. A repetitive clatter drummed in my brain and it was not until after a while that I noticed it stemmed from a dark alley nearby. I approached and saw a breathtaking view, a view that could have killed me of a cardiac arrest.

Two men fighting, both fighting with swords. One had made a deep cut in the stomach of the other and this one was collapsing on his knees. The victor hoisted his blade to the sky and then let it fall down with the strength of a guillotine, severing head and neck apart.

My breath halted upon such a ghastly scene but it worsened when the corpse started to glimmer. My hands shiver now as I narrate that moment. Then a bolt of lightning surged upward and hit the winner. Then another and another. The victor yelled with a jubilous smile in his face.

Suddenly, as sudden as its beginning, it ended. The victor rose with effort and sighed, then he began to head out of the alley.. and he recognised me. So did I.

I staggered back and attempted to escape but he quickly ran past me and blocked my way out. I saw him wield the sword threateningly at me. I thought death had finally arrived and I remembered my wife. Then someone spoke and the man retreated.

"Mr. Khan, drop that sword now."

It was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He approached with decision. Khan yelled like a savage and he stormed towards my friend, chopping madly at his head. As Khan's arm arched upward, Holmes flexxed his knees, and when Khan attempted to split his head in halves, Holmes moved aside and hit his elbow against Khan's side.

Khan did not counter. He escaped quickly. Holmes grinned at me as I joined him. He looked agitated but calm. I commented on his move, and he mentioned his lessons of baritsu, a martial art that had got him out of trouble more than once.

"Well, Watson, I believe our case is solved."

--

Lestrade seemed rather puzzled when we called in to inform him that his suspect was innocent. He did not argue, at least not after I told him of the beheading I had witnessed. I omitted the part that followed, lest he doubted my sanity.

We stayed enough time to watch the release of Benjamin Adams. A slender, young man. Lestrade apologised and told him that I had witnessed the true murderer. Adams gave me a chilly look which haunted for many nights afterward, and that now, as I recall it, makes me shiver once more.

We left the Department and Holmes and I parted ways. He wanted a drink and I wanted to sleep. Tomorrow, the authorities would find and deal with Khan. I sighed as the carriage rode home, gladdening in the belief that such a ghastly case was over.

--

Three days later, Holmes and I were in Baker Street. After a lot of dithering, I had finally told him of what had happened after the beheading. Holmes had stared with disbelief, but he was enough of a friend to know that I could not have made it up. He shook his head and rose.

"Well, Watson, one of many peculiar things of this life. Forget about it and return to your riddle. How is it going?" He said nonchalantly.

"Puzzling. I see no logical exit out of it." I answered.

"What does it say?"

"Suppose you are in a room. To your left there're lions that want to eat you. To your right there's an enormous fire. Behind you, there're pointy spikes. Ahead of you, there's a wall. You can't stay where you are, so how do you keep on living?"

Holmes listened, thought, and smiled. "It's very simple. All—"

Lestrade rushed in, gasping and anxious. Holmes stared.

"Lestrade, what...?"

"You were wrong, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade spat angrily, the only time he directed such emotion at my friend. "And an innocent man is dead because of it."

"What do you mean?" Holmes asked severely.

"We found Hans Khan. He is dead." Holmes glanced at me. "He was beheaded. And you wouldn't imagine who was seen escaping from the crime scene?"

Holmes shook his head and sighed. "Dr. Benjamin Adams, maybe?"

"Exactly!"

"Well, Lestrade..." Holmes said coldly. "I'm not perfect, am I? I apologise for my mistake."

Lestrade grunted acceptance and left. I sat down. My friend gazed at the door for a few seconds, then he faced me, his face bright as if nothing had happened.

"As I was saying, Watson, all you have to do is nothing. You are not there."

"Sorry?"

"You are not in a room. You are supposing you are in a room."

"There's no logic in that."

"And why must there be... logic...?"

Holmes spoke haltedly. I stared and suddenly a spark glimmered in his eyes. I knew his failure had upset him briefly but now, he understood where he had failed. Or so I believed.

"Watson... that Khan wasn't innocent." He said calmly as he approached his desk and drew out a sheet of paper. "But Lestrade is right: neither was Adams."

"I'm not sure I understand you, Holmes."

"This could perfectly be a simple retaliation case. Adams going after Khan and killing him for making him sit on a jail. Plausible enough. However, we have the lightnings and other elements that don't fit."

"Elements?"

"Do you remember the delicious Moscovite lady? Remember how I told you I believed her English was not that good? Or the cold glare of Adams when he knew what you had witnessed?"

"Yes"

"Well, it turns out that Mr. Romanov was murdered twenty years ago by beheading. And he did have a wife named Franzizka. However, the use of her husband's last name misled me to believe she was actually his daughter, one of whom there's no mention of. Obviously a mistake of mine."

"But she should be at least forty years old. How could it be?"

"What if I told you there is a group of people that can live forever until their heads are severed. Then their souls emerge the corpses and enter the victor's body?"

"I'd say there is no logic in that." I said with disbelief.

"Exactly." Holmes leant against the desk and gave out an exhausted sigh. "But it is the only explanation..."

I approached the window and stared out. Night was falling. I told my friend I was leaving. He farewelled me warmly and I left the building. I got on a carriage and as it rode away, I stared at the thoughtful shape of my friend, deep in thought against the window.

--

The story ends there. As from that moment, Holmes slowly began his quest for a way to prolong his lifetime, a quest that became a subtle obsession, which in time led him to move to Essex. My wife died two years ago. My son is married and away from this city. I am alone, with no one else but my trusted butler, Hopkins. It is he the writer of these words, upon my inability to write fluidly. I have sworn him to secrecy on an unbelievable explanation that, over the years, I have grown to believe in. In my deathbed, my time is coming, and I am at least glad that someone else will know the unexpained truth that Holmes revealed to me...

_John Watson _

--

**1992.**

The Watcher closed the file and sighed. Sherlock Holmes had indeed unveiled the immortal secret. However, the pages he held had never seen public light. He dithered for a second whether to consider the item for his research. Then the old man called out at him.

He closed the file belonging to the watcher Peter Hopkins. And he was about to return it to his place when he heard the old man calling again.

"Pierson!"

"I'm on my way."

Adam Pierson replaced the file and left the archive. He was greeted by an old Watcher, retired from the field, now earning his income as some sort of librarian.

"You've just got a message. You're off to Paris."

"Thanks."

Adam shook the man's hand and began his exit when the old man called back.

"You're taking something with you." The old man said amicably.

Adam glanced and contained a chuckle. He handed it back and left.

The old Watcher read the name on the file. Benjamin Adams. He remembered that one. An immortal of whom there had been no traces in the last century, and of whom there was no photograph or picture. The man wondered what Pierson found relevant in Adams. Pierson was researching on the legendary Methos, not on a run-of-the-mill immortal. Unless there was a connection between Methos and Adams. Had Pierson found a link between them? Was Adams an acquaintance, or an apprentice of Methos? Could Adams _be_ Methos?

Unlikely. Very unlikely. The watcher dsmissed his thought and went into the archive to replace the file, unaware that he was closer to the truth than many would ever imagine.


End file.
